


Illuminated

by youkokurama



Category: Filth (2012), Shame (2011), mcfassy - Fandom
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Community: mcfassy, Depression, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hallucinations, Lechery, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Mystery, Police Brutality, Profanity, Rough Sex, Sex Addiction, Slow Build, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence, Voyeurism, bad cop - Freeform, depressive tendencies, more warnings will be added, some content may be offensive, unapologetic irreverence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 19:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2593148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youkokurama/pseuds/youkokurama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The police comes into Brandon's office, which leads him to start questioning how far gone he is in his deviancy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't watched Filth and Shame in full yet, just bits and snippets and trailers (because I think I couldn't handle too much emotions yet) so I'm not sure if this would come spoilery. Regardless, it's more like I only took liberty using the characters' names and image to write this story, guided by the clips of the awesome fanvid below. I don't know if there's already a Chinese fanfic out there tied to the fanvid, but this is my take.  
> http://www.tudou.com/programs/view/IKw7ZiPIVmg

It was just another cold, drab day. Just Brandon Sullivan going through the motions of a so-called normal life. He had just come from that company-imposed vacation courtesy of his boss, who happened to closely take a look at him one day and declared that he definitely needs a break.  
  
How he wished that was every day. He just feels so tired. There is a nagging small voice at the back of his head that is wondering if he's being too robotic recently, _must look normal, don't let them see what you really are..._  
  
Honestly, he doesn't really find himself caring.  
  
That "vacation" didn't do much for him anyway. It was already four days into the mandated one week break before he decided to go off the country to somewhere warmer, maybe a belated attempt to follow what people usually do to try improving their mood.  But Brandon really belongs here in the city -- despite all the frenzy of the alcohol and the sex squeezed in a day and a half before his flight back, he still feels cold and unsatied and weary as ever. As chilled and as numbed as that finger he had been circling over the cold metallic tabletop for a few minutes already while waiting for his turn at the meeting.  
  
Movement at the corner of his eye, and he allowed his attention to be momentarily dragged away from his blank soliloquy.  
  
At the adjacent glass room with some bigwigs from the other department were some unfamiliar faces. Visitor IDs primly on their chests, he recognizes belatedly.  
  
And one in particular, was staring right back at him with an expression he couldn't decipher.  
  
He tears his eyes away. He knows how gazes could be dangerous, especially his. And he thankfully still has self-control to not start anything in the office. As long as possible.  
  
He can't help but wonder though what's the visitor's problem with him that he's being stared at like that. He readjusts the already meticulously arranged papers on his folder trying to look busy and not the least self-conscious, discreetly checks what blurry reflection he could get of himself on the silvery metal table to see if anything's wrong with his face. Same old drawn-out image of a man, nearing gauntness made even worse by the unreliable translucency.  
  
Big mistake though, he couldn't help but check back up again to see if the man was still looking at him. He still is, with those clear blue eyes, as wide and as crystalline like an ocean placed within the monochromatic setup of the place, contrasting with pale skin, a gingery scruff and even darker hair, piercing at him, _through_ him. Coupled with that expression he still couldn't grasp, but somehow reminds him of that cat he sometimes chances upon lounging carelessly across the walkway to his apartment -- wide-eyed tensed and warily staring him up like it couldn't decide if it should keep on holding its ground or jump up and run.  
  
Brandon has no time to think about it more as a soft voice beside him signalled it is his turn to present.  
  
  
  
  
It must have been five days after that Brandon was summoned to go to Meeting Room C without any prelude. Finding no energy to question whatever it is about, just grateful for the respite from the eyestrain of crunching numbers on his computer, he promptly goes up to the said room unthinking.  
  
And barely catches himself freezing as he was greeted by the sight of ocean crystal eyes again when he opened the door.  
  
"Good afternoon. Brandon Sullivan, is that right?".  
  
Hints of a heavy accent and inflection -- Scottish, perhaps? -- on an unexpectedly smooth, lilting voice. Brandon closes the door behind him slowly, now wondering what the hell was going on. "Yes."  
  
Owner of said ocean crystal eyes stood up, extending a hand which Brandon took warily. Firm, confident handshake. It wasn't like his eyes from five days ago. "Detective Bruce Robertson from Edinburgh. We're just here for a couple of questions on a certain case we're working on."  
  
By "we" Robertson must have meant those other people with him five days ago, but Brandon could see none of them around. He nodded, a bit careful with his gaze back at the detective, because those piercing blue eyes were still startlingly unwavering from his, as if piecing him apart. And it might just be his imagination, or the fault of skipping breakfast that morning, but it's like despite the detective's slightly shorter stature his presence seemed to fill the room, closing in around him, making him hyperaware of everything about the detective down to the slightly rough fingertips that withdrew from his at the end of the handshake.  
  
"How can I help you, Officer?"  
  
Detective Robertson gestured to the seat infront of him, sliding a set of photos to Brandon when he settled down. "Do you know her?"  
  
Brandon studies the photos on the table infront of him.  A blonde woman about his age, in corporate attire and glasses with her hair tightly pulled up in a bun. "No. This is the first time I saw her."  
  
The detective had taken up half-sitting on the table beside him, slightly arching his left eyebrow at that as he looks down at Brandon. "Really? Surely you must have seen her around here some time. She's from the Promotions Department, in fact."  
  
The thing is, Brandon didn't really much care for anyone around him. Even if they are immediate co-workers. He had barely memorized their names even, only remembering if it's required. So he tried to fight down that slight flash of annoyance at the question -- it wouldn't do creating a bad impression on an officer of the law. "I'm sorry, but really no. It's such a big company, and the Promotions Department is six floors down, so..."  
  
The detective twists slightly behind him to get another set of photos from his portfolio, and slides those to Brandon. "How about her?"  
  
Brandon takes a look, and he sucks in a breath.  
  
A blonde woman with wavy curls stopping just right her jaw, all made up and dressed like she was going clubbing with her friends. Bordering on trashy if it wasn't for the fluffy and expensive-looking tiger print fur coat covering her on most pictures.  
  
He definitely knows this woman. Or he thinks he does, and the implications made him a bit uneasy.  
  
"I believe you know this one then." The detective was now smiling a slight smile, and it could mean anything from knowing something Brandon doesn't, attempting reassurance, or being a wolf that had finally caught its prey.  "So how many times have you fucked her?"  
  
Brandon looked up sharply at the man. That... language... was certainly unexpected -- no, blatantly unethical -- for someone of position like the detective, and he didn't like that one bit. "Excuse me?" He barely managed to filter the offense out of his voice.  
  
If at all, that smile just grew a fraction more. Never reaching the eyes. "Don't worry about that, Mr. Sullivan. I've already done my background check on you, with the help of your co-workers of course. Whatever you do on your free time doesn't have to be their concern, but if it would concern the state," he reaches into the portfolio again for some more pictures, "then I'm certainly obligated to make it mine," and he tosses said pictures over the previous spread before Brandon.  
  
Brandon's stomach lurches as he can't help but glance at the newest set, almost immediately averting his eyes. "Jesus," he whispers. Images of the same curly blonde woman, now with her face on some pavement bloodied and apparently smashed in that she's nearly pulped, can't help but replay in his mind now. It must be foresight that he didn't have breakfast so he would have nothing to throw up outright at the moment, but he still can't help but taste the bile at his throat.  
  
"She's the same woman as the first two sets of photos I've shown you," Detective Robertson says conversationally, as if dispelling totally his unspoken little doubt that the mutilated face and the blonde woman was not the same person. "Surely you may have seen this on the news?"  
  
"I... I may have read of it." He honestly couldn't remember if he actually did. He may have seen it scrolling through the unwanted news ticker whenever he checks his email every morning, but surely it's just one of those that are definitely delegated off the front pages or not at all, just another usual case of another whore found dead on the street.  He didn't know what to say. He still felt shocked, and unexpectedly saddened, with what happened. Despite his current apathy towards people, no human being deserves to die that way. "I really didn't recognize that she's from here."  
  
 _Or else..._  
  
But really, what could he have done?  
  
The detective's eyes looks down for a moment as if considering some thoughts, before leaning over to collect the pictures. "Unrecognizable, isn't she? Who would've thought she converts to this kind of bombshell at night? People wear masks all the time, but hers had definitely gone to another level." Deft hands sorted through the photos rearranging them, slipping them back into his portfolio set by set.  
  
Brandon forces himself to look at that little activity, not glare at the detective because... surely that is not the respectful way to talk about the dead?  
  
 _People wear masks all the time..._ This little comment made his heart go cold a bit though that he forgot about reacting altogether.  
  
"She had interacted with a lot of people in and out of the office, so it's not just you we are talking to. This place is not my usual jurisdiction, but she is one of my area as she is yours," he nods briefly to the company logo at the far wall behind Brandon, explaining further that the woman was a Scottish immigrant whose visa is currently questionable that is why he got involved, "that is why we need all you employees' cooperation as we go through you one by one as swiftly as possible. As you said, this is a big company."  
  
He gazed at the detective. The detective's mind games, he could just sense it, and he had read enough literature and watched enough tv to know what it is.  
  
He had actually thought about this scenario long ago, about his extracurriculars finally bleeding into his working life despite his attempts to not get anyone in the office near, and he still hadn't quite gotten around to figuring out what to do afterwards if it goes to that. He certainly haven't thought of the twist of the police getting involved, and suddenly the future was unclear. He was not sure he was prepared to lose his job just yet.  
  
"Of course," he replies smoothly, as the detective seemed to have caught on his gaze and must be starting to read from him that he has recognized the game -- if he haven't had already.  
  
"I wouldn't keep you long from your work then." The detective slides off the table's edge and straightens, which is cue for Brandon to stand up as well, conversation over. He holds his hand out again, Brandon shakes it numbly. "Thank you for your time."  
  
Brandon just nods, walks towards the door. As he opens it, he can't help but give in to a sudden, surprising urge, asking daringly as he looked over his shoulder at the detective, "Am I a suspect now?"  
  
He was met with suddenly amused clear blue eyes, and a curl at the edge of those lips. "What do you think? Are you going to run, Mr. Sullivan?"


	2. Chapter 2

Bruce catches himself staring vacantly at some random spot at the cluttered bedspread, long-unsmoked cigarette stub almost burning down to his fingertips, not really getting work done.  
  
Not that he would actually get work done with studying the same damn things for the umpteenth time today, no.  
  
Or maybe he's thinking that these raspberry-flavored smokes he had "borrowed" from one of the victims is just a Bad Idea, a waste of filter and condemnation of the essence that true cigarettes are supposed to taste bad like ash and bitter paper. Which could have been what finally stirred him from this majorly unproductive moment, as he uncurls his already asleep leg from underneath his thigh and gingerly props it up to a still unoccupied white spot of bedsheet, careful not to disturb the immediate arrangement around it.  
  
The "arrangement" on his bed was more like some of the pieces of evidence, notes, photos, newspaper clippings, and other assorted knick knacks related to the current case in a systematic layout only Bruce could understand. Those spilled over to the opposite wall with cracked paint, littered even more with additional Post Its and old faded graffiti courtesy of the apartment's previous tenants. How he managed to pilfer out those evidences especially from the station is his trade secret, or he's just damned good at intimidating people with his brilliance.  
  
 _That brilliance should have been long awarded with that promotion, really..._  
  
He forces his thoughts from potentially frustrating and annoying things. Much like that Company he has to scour from the ground up, aside from forcing pleasantries and paperwork to get its management to comply more smoothly with their investigation, when all his instincts are just screaming and kicking at him that he would find nothing, that his suspect is just not fucking there.  
  
It's just too much people, and, frankly, he thinks, too much of a waste of time.  
  
He can do by the book though, and he is very thorough if not diligent. No harm in spending extra, if not excruciating, time in speaking with people to see if they'll spill anything that may be of importance. Big picture, little details -- he can take in all that and more, and weave them into solved cases, no problem, otherwise he wouldn't be as relatively successful and still breathing as a detective in the Edinburgh police force right now. With the perks that he can be as off the wall as only he can be, with his co-workers wise enough most of the time to leave him alone, of course.  
  
Like now, he had managed to relegate some of the interviewing at the Company with his supposedly assigned partner in a way to save time and, most importantly, that they'd be away from each other. Just one look at the guy back at their first meeting and he already knew he'd potentially spoil his rhythm, and one thing that Bruce is really good at is driving away people, most specially those he didn't like. He just armed the guy with a recorder for backup, just in case that he turns out to be a wimp in interrogation.  
  
And, another small victory, that he gets to be on his own in this apartment. Because he thinks that sharing living space with your co-worker to save on transborder funds is just plain childish and stupid. He doesn't want to babysit fellow policemen. And if that guy's around, he wouldn't be able to do...  
  
His eyes fall on a certain packet on the bed, making him absently lick at his lip. _Well_..  
  
Ignoring the lightning running through his foot and leg as it scrambled to bring back circulation, he took the packet and limped his way to the fridge where he kept his medicine kit on top. Tore the plastic sealing of the packet with his teeth -- it was actually an evidence bag, with a small vial in it -- as his other hand rummaged into the kit for a syringe. Hopefully there's still one.  
  
He had already read the drugs and narcotics report attached. No unfamiliar ingredients based on his prior knowledge dealing with these things, just varying percentages he must admit he has to wrack hard into his brain for previous experiences that would remind him and give ideas of the effects of the possible combinations. No trace of any communicable disease either.  
  
His hand closes around a packet of syringe, and he had to resist breaking out into an excited grin as his fingers hurried to tear it out and carefully pierce through a corner of the vial that he could easily fix later.  
  
Another perk of the job and being him -- he gets to try new things.  
  
The needle hits home on his vein, sure and true. He closes his eyes as his teeth lets go of the leather belt that constricts his upper arm, wanting to revel in the feeling of foreign liquid spreading through his bloodstream.  
  
He reopened his eyes a few minutes later, readjusted to the dim light of the room.  
  
The world didn't change.  
  
 _Hmm_.  
  
He resisted the urge to throw the vial to some corner of the room, opting to calmly wrap it into a new plastic bag and place it in the fridge to be resealed later. He walked back to the bed to grab another stick of that damned raspberry-flavored cigarette, his mood to buy some real ones apparently killed.  
  
He watches as the cigarette box lands back down over other cigarette stubs and packets at a section of the bed, the latest victim's amongst one of them. Sweeps his eyes over the bed and the wall again, half-hoping all the stuff there would finally speak to him this time, drug-enhanced or not. But everything just regarded him back lifelessly, dispassionately, offering no answers. (Also, still no effect from the drug, that he started to wonder if the lab tech had been doing some experimenting of his own.)  
  
It was almost all the same thing but really not, the general category of cigarette butts and whores and drugs apparently the only constant that it could never be deemed significant even on tabloids, that plenty in the station thought he was kind of crazy in insisting that there is actually a pattern. Somewhere. This collection of cases just turned cold, for it had been months, though prematurely so in his opinion.  
  
Drugs and prostitutes were a deadly combination that was as ancient as time that it honestly bored him to death, someone please just hang him for god's sake, but there's this little topping in the details that just whispered to him that there is an attempt to hide the pattern and attempt to mislead a possible drug trail. Different kinds of whores, killed at random times and varying degrees of violence, sometimes manner of death similar, sometimes at the same place in the UK, sometimes not.  
  
Yes, he'd been practically all over the fucking Britain with this case, and while he appreciated the chance for impromptu sightseeing and trying out new things, he was _really_ bored with the drugs-and-whores plot element already, most especially that it had already been in his case list thrice in a row prior. Which was suspiciously almost a staple of his lifelong career. Not that he was tired of the whores, preferring to see them alive and interacting, but still.  
  
The ingredients -- those were what he held on to. What kept him alert, what kept him believing when that small part of him remembers the guys' words in the station that he's almost slipping to self-doubt. The thing with drugs is, there are certain ingredient combinations that can be done before they're considered the same, and despite missing one to three traces of the components of the drug or adding a random ingredient or two or formulated in different amounts he can still spot the same names in the deaths, allowing his suspicions.  
  
Four of the eight victims had traces of some of the components of the certain drug he just took, in varying amounts. Only one of the four had the most of it, the third from the latest, the freshest body they found. Fifth victim provided them the vial, though she has only two to three of its components. Two of those four led him to this section of London, the latest blonde one of them.  
  
Not good percentages, and too much coincidental factors, but he didn't mind going along with the breadcrumbs.  
  
He'd like to think they got a handful of people to check twice on here anyway. Three from near the crime scene, three from the Company. Then there is one that may be incidental that they still have to find. What kind of disturbed him from the latest death is the victim may not exactly be a prostitute, may be just some woman with a bizarre sense of fun, which is the vibes he's getting from the Company and those three persons of interest there.  
  
Those three didn't appear especially guilty, just having the misfortune of having had some significant interaction with the victim. He gazed at the pictures of the three, drawing up a mental map of their addresses and an efficient route his car could take so he could at least cover a two of them a day which honestly is already pushing his luck.   
  
He finds himself staring at the picture of that Brandon Sullivan perhaps two seconds longer than necessary, before forcing his eyes away. Being just the second of the two of the employees that actually solicited, unknowingly they claim, the latest victim for sex, such occurence was not that groundbreaking that he could easily dismiss this guy as unimportant if not for his fastidiousness in holding a case. The guy was not even skittish, just a bit on the side of uncomfortable which is normal when being interrogated by a police officer, just a bit defiant when part of his ego is poked on (with that curveball of a question he threw at the end of their interview that just got Bruce a bit amused, but still not worth his time that he would consider the man guilty).  
  
...He actually would want to kick himself that some small part of his instinct is already considering the guy not guilty. Hiding something though, is what he could sense.  
  
And there's this other thing...  
  
He rubbed his eyes wearily with the heel of his hand. Hadn't he just psyched himself earlier that he doesn't want to think of potentially frustrating and annoying things? He looked out the window in an unconscious attempt to distract himself.  
  
And watched as an old woman on the opposite apartment building pour down a bucket of snakes to the street below. A parade of ant-heads and pigeonheads made their way to the end of the road in a somber funeral march, but there is one at the end of the line that keeps playing with some party poppers. There is a pighead going down dirty with a dog near the taxi stand, and there was a big fly coming towards him, and it's much bigger than him as it got closer, bigger than a man...  
  
He stumbled back to the nearest wall. Managed somehow to stagger over to the short distance to the bathroom meaning to get some water, but ended up crouching down as he gripped the short hairs at his nape to catch his breath and get his bearings. In the meantime, his surroundings start to pulse like red oil in a lava lamp, throb slowly like a frog's heart and surrounding tissues from his biology class way back.  
  
Laughter bubbled forth from his lips, unbidden. He almost couldn't breathe.  
  
 _This is so_ perfect...  
  
  
  
  
Five days later found him watching Sullivan get out of his second club that night. He didn't know if he should be happy that this man was not making him work, unlike Mr. Rutgers earlier who had him constantly on the go.  
  
If anything, the man must be a connoisseur.  
  
Two days straight since he started trailing the guy, it was almost the same routine. At different places.  
  
So he waited for about 30 minutes before getting out of his car and going to the same place, making sure he orders the same woman Sullivan had.  Maybe just to get an even bigger picture of his subject.  
  
Maybe he got lost in his own passion, consumed by his own need, concentration slipped again like usual. Or maybe this damned bitch just had too many customers before the two of them that he feels that even with her muscle control it's still not fucking tight enough to make him satisfied, she didn't even look thoroughly fucked from her previous session as expected -- he knew Sullivan was packing some, his eyes are good at taking in even the supposedly unimportant and inappropriate details even at first meeting -- he simply couldn't sense that the company man had been there, had used this same woman, this same room, this same bed...  
  
Like there is no sign that he had any interaction with anything or anyone.  Like Brandon Sullivan had never been there at all.  
  
  
  
  
It was sometime after his late lunch, and he stretches in that little glass cage the cute receptionist from downstairs assigned him to as today's interrogation room. Just a few more, about fifty people, he thought wryly, and he should be done. He wished things would just go faster.  
  
Just in time to see Sullivan walk into the opposite glass room with a pretty redhead, discussing things with each other with a frown on his face. It took quite a long time after settling in behind a computer and typing and the redhead leaving before he was noticed on the other room.  
  
Sullivan blinks slowly, as if wondering what the hell he's doing there. He had no time to acknowledge as the next interviewee had already come in. When he next looked up, the guy was already deep into typing on the computer.  
  
He could feel the company man's eyes on him sometimes though. He does some occasional looking of his own, for lack of things to see from that floor aside from transparent glass walls and office equipment, but it seems everytime he does the guy is back to slaving over his job. The one time that their gazes managed to meet, it's like the man made an effort to not look too quickly away.  
  
Sullivan left that room around before 5 in the afternoon. He considered going to the cafeteria for a break, but one look at his list and he grudgingly relented to not taking any.  
  
A little after 6, Sullivan returns to the other glass room with an even deeper frown. And pointedly not looking at him for the rest of the evening. He didn't know if that was intentional, or he's really that busy.  
  
Around 8 in the evening, after the last interviewee, he decided to settle the matter for the both of them.  
  
He crosses the threshold and opens the glass door to Sullivan's room. "Hey, would you like to grab some coffee for a bit? Or beers if you're already done."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think i'm getting pretty depressed with the way I'm writing stories, I don't know. I'm not getting much feedback so I don't know if I'm effective or something.


	3. Chapter 3

Brandon must have been spacing out on one area of his computer screen, that he jolts slightly when the door opened and the police officer gave his offer with that casual Scottish accent of his.

He didn't know what to make of it. Had his eyes been straying over to the detective too much earlier that the other took it as an invitation? Honestly it may had been for lack of anything else to see on that floor when he needed to rest his eyes. In fact, he shouldn't be here, if not for the network down and the higher up deciding that it would be too time-consuming if they'd go for transferring manually that large file to his computer downstairs instead.

He realized it had been almost a second and he's still not answering. "I'm sorry, but I still got lots to do," he managed. "Maybe next time." He had to force out the last sentence out of politeness.

Detective Robertson pursed his lips a bit as if thinking it over, already withdrawing back out. "Ok. Enjoy working."

Brandon clicked around the screen until the detective left the floor, before letting out a slow inhale.

Actually he's 99% done. But he didn't feel like going. Not especially when he's supposed to be a suspect. It would just be too awkward.

 

  

The next day, Brandon was still placed at that office room with the glass walls. Detective Robertson was not at the other room this time.

Even Brandon had to admit he felt a bit lonely. And creeped out that he was all alone on that floor.

 

  

He could hear those footfalls. Heels, to be exact, echoing arrestingly even over the thrum of the usual traffic of people at 8pm in the tube.

He found himself following. Looking. Trying to see a glimpse. Why? He doesn't exactly know.

He whipped around trying to find the source of the sound. He knew who those footfalls belonged to, that way of walking.

He saw a flash of blonde at the corner of his eye, but as he turned to that direction the train whizzed past before his eyes like it was vertigo and just inches from his face.

Then the black and white picture of a blonde woman with her face pulped, his view too close for comfort ---

 

  

Brandon starts on his seat, the steady hum of the computer at his ears and the screen glaring radiation at his face.

He must have dozed off. He straightens sluggishly on his seat, heartbeat still running a marathon, his eyes meeting only countless transparent glass and office equipment beyond his own as he looked around him. Most of the lights turned off at certain areas.

He was still the only person on that floor, and it was already past 8 in the evening.

OK, so he's really creeped out now.

He does a quick check if his work had been saved earlier. He didn't bother waiting around anymore for the computer to completely shut down, just intent in getting into the elevator as soon as he can.

His heart, somehow, was still pounding over that dream. Why did he even dream about that anyway?

He knew at this rate he wouldn't be able to sleep right away once he gets back to his apartment.

He trudges wearily to the nearby bar instead of the club, usual expected sexual appetite strangely nullified to like zen perhaps because of that dream, figuring that alcohol could help him with sleep. He had barely crossed the threshold when his eyes meet familiar ones across the establishment, making him start and curse mentally to himself.

He considered doing an about face. He did. But it was an executive decision and he slowly walks over to where Bruce Robertson is seated on the part of the bar facing the front door, and after a half-second's consideration slides into the barstool beside him.

The detective was once again looking amused as he looked at him, he could tell from the corner of his eye. There was that small smirk momentarily eclipsed by the officer looking away a bit and tipping up his glass to finish his drink, like that smirk was declaring _I knew you would come along_...

Or it might just be his miffed imagination. Or the seemingly constant hint of mischief that aura and those blue eyes have. He tried to ignore it by ordering some vodka. There was a soccer game on the telly perched high on the racks behind the bar, and he tried concentrating on that instead.

A glass containing reddish liquid slid over as he downed the rest of his glass, and as he looked questioningly up at the bartender, a voice of smooth tartan casualness spoke up beside him, "You look like you need that."

He was now forced to acknowledge the officer beside him, his hand wrapping around the new glass. "Thanks?"

The man has his own hand around a pint, his other hand lazily propping up his head as he looked back at him. Sleeves rolled up his arms and tie loosened over a crinkly shirt and dark vest. Cheeks slightly flushed pink and the rims of those eyes slightly red, perhaps due to intoxication, but those piercing blues were still bright and sharp. "Long day?"

He took a sip of the drink. Rum, it seemed. "Quite." He can't help but recall that dream. He tried chasing it away again with that slightly caramel-sweet liquid burning down his throat.

"Same. I think I need a vacation." The man finished his glass, and the bartender promptly went over to refill. Somehow somewhere in Brandon's mind that is starting to feel the effects of the courtesy drink he wondered about this stranger from Edinburgh's apparent familiarity with this local barkeep. "Any suggestions?"

"Ibiza?" he said. He instantly regretted it. He barely had a drink and he's already going along with a conversation he's not exactly in the mood for. He felt a bit self-conscious that after another tip his glass was already empty. As he put it down he motioned to his new glass for a refill, which made the bartender move and those blue eyes at his side crinkle pleased.

"Oh. Is it as overrated as expected?"

He gives a little shrug, caring less. Both on the place and this conversation. The noise from the telly appeared not to be doing a good job in letting him drift away. "Depends on the person."

"Yeah, you certainly didn't look too excited on the airport cams."

He put his drink down. He's really starting to think he hates this policeman. He looks back at Detective Robertson, trying to sound neutral and conversational at that starting to be infuriating smirk at that face. "What else don't you know about me?"

The detective was just that good at matching him at stare down, that smirk still unmoved. "Apparently still a lot." He downs his drink again in one go, eyes still locked with his in such ease and hard-headedness that Brandon was the one who was forced to give up in that little game after a while and look back down his own glass. He just couldn't do it unblinking that long. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. You know what I do."

_Then why are we even talking,_ Brandon wants to lash out, and suddenly he feels that wave of exhaustion hit him. He can't go on like this, he can't keep up with all this pretense of politeness and camaraderie. He doesn't know why the detective just gets to him like one stubborn annoyance, almost like everyone else is, but he doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to think about _anything_. He just wants the detective to leave him alone, he just wants _everyone_ to leave him alone, he wants to have his drink _alone..._

"Hey." He hadn't realized it, but he blinks as he finds the detective already standing close by his side, leaning so close that he feels some of that ginger scruff brush his ear and whiffs of alcohol breath float to his nose as he whispers, "Do you intend to drink all night? 'Cause I know a better place that has cheaper stuff than this."

And the arousal hit.

_No. No, fuck it. Not this time. No._

Just like that. Maybe it's the unexpected proximity. Or... he didn't know why. And he didn't _want_ it. Least of all with a man, with _this_ man, who just goes under his skin somehow and makes his blood boil and with all things considered is just plain unlikeable.

He just hates his body.

He hates himself most of all.

He tries to inch away surreptitiously and not look down at himself, tried to make it look like he's just giving himself distance so he could twist around a bit to answer the question, hoping somehow by the weight on his lap he's feeling that his long coat is still covering the part that shouldn't be seen.

"Yes," he finds himself answering despite his turmoil, before belatedly realizing that was just too vague, and that was not the message he really wants to say, that he hurries to elaborate, "I mea ---"

"Come on then," the detective slaps down a bill on the counter beside him covering the both of them, and tugs him just a bit enough that it slides him partially off his seat.

_No no no_ , his mind just screams, and there was just enough lull as they walked out of the threshold and from the bar, just enough space for him to spin his heels to the opposite direction and give the excuse that he doesn't feel like drinking anymore, just to get away from this unwanted company.

But another tug and "This way" and he just finds himself following despite all his loathing, despite the sudden spike of lust at the back of his skin threatening to expose him.

He would like to believe it's just the alcohol, and his craving for more alcohol just for this night to completely drown himself from dreaming and wanting and thinking, that made him traverse unknown paths and alleyways with a person he couldn't care less for.

 

  

"Perplexed" is definitely an understatement to what he's feeling when the bartender at this other watering hole recognized the foreign detective outright more than him.

Most specially that the detective led him to this bar he had visited a couple of times or so in the past, through just a couple of turns, shortcuts, and a small occasional group of two to three shady characters lurking in the shadows that he wondered how actually _familiar_ the officer was with everything in this city. Brandon never goes frequently to the place as it was quite out of the way, but the detective just made it look like he was just crossing the street.

"I just don't get all the fuss about the Queen. The hag's practically useless," the voice beside him complained then a bit too loudly, snapping him out of his thoughts.

His eyes wandered to whatever the detective may be fussing about aside from the flavor of the Tequila Sunrise he had ordered for the both of them in lieu of the beer tower. The TV on this bar this time was playing the late-night news.

"She's called a figurehead for a reason," he decided to indulge the hazy blue eyes after a moment, despite the still simmering disdain for the guy crawling beneath his skin. In his defense, the detective may already have reached his peak of inebriation anyway, and his manners were still persistent in keeping up his charade of camaraderie even through his own intoxication.

"Still." The man made a little grimace as he downed his share of the orangey liquid. "Wrinkly pussies are just not inspirational."

He didn't know if he should be appalled or amused. "Don't you have any woman out there who you could at least respect, officer?"

He belatedly realizes that the question must sound rude. But the detective just answers nonchalantly, "I'm supposed to." A hand was held up briefly, on which he spots the flash of a white-gold band. "Kind of."

He must have been staring at the inconspicuous band of metal a little too longer than necessary, because the detective was now smiling at him again in that shark-like way that never really reached his eyes. "If we'll not be talking about the reason why you moved here from your branch at New York, then we can drop this subject."

Brandon's blood just about ran cold again.

Alright, so family talks are off-limits.

It's actually fine by him. More than fine. He'd rather prefer it that way.

Just the mention of it practically killed his mood for tonight.

Almost. Because as the rest of the night went on the detective just went jumping from topic to topic and the polite person in him kept being forced to keep up and kept being distracted from his supposed irritation. That he was quite disoriented that from his intention earlier to just worry whether they'll actually finish that seemingly impossible tower of tequila and orange juice, he was now staring at the last glass of it on his hand.

The detective was definitely chatty.

And a jaded, jaded man.

He couldn't exactly recall the details of how he got back to his apartment, just that he shared a cab with the detective. And had him dropped off first unerringly right infront his apartment complex, which he only thought belatedly may just be normal as he's considered a suspect anyway.

And as he dumped himself to the nearest sofa to the threshold, still cringing slightly at the cold from the leatherette still seeping through his alcohol-warmed skin but couldn't be bothered to get the heater up, he can't help but think that the end of this day turned out to be not that bad after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for [readercat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/readercat). You have no idea how much I feel encouraged by your attention... Thank you! I hope you don't mind my take on Bruce and Brandon, as I haven't seen or read Filth and Shame yet.

 

The next three weeks he finds Sullivan sometimes at this bar with the cheaper booze for someone who intends to drink all night. It seems he has taken to heart well that little shortcut he took him to.

Sometimes the company man was already there way ahead of him. Sometimes, when he manages to be earlier, Sullivan would still look a bit surprised to see him there, but never fail to slide to the barstool beside him with often an undetectable fraction of hesitation. What is frequent is they'll share a beer tower with whatever garish mix the bartender comes up with, or a bottle. Bruce couldn't even remember when or how or why they actually started sharing, when they could very much well afford their own choice of drink on their own.

There are some times that there would be silences, specially when the topics had run dry or somehow one or both of them didn't feel like talking. It's strange, but somehow Bruce doesn't feel uncomfortable with it, or doesn't feel the compulsion to break that bubble with his usual games.

That is more likely to happen when Bruce brings in his co-workers with him to the bar, because Sullivan will usually steer clear of them and sit at one inconspicuous corner of the place. Bruce will eye him time to time, exchange glances, but otherwise carry on their own matters.

The one time that Bruce dared to call him over and Sullivan with his usual civil cool (but there's reluctance, he could just feel it) took some of his offered drinks, one of the policemen (his assigned partner to his current case) blurts when Sullivan seemed out of earshot en route to the loo, "Wait, isn't he..."

Bruce was fairly certain Sullivan didn't hear that, but the company man had excused himself earlier than usual that night, muttering about emails and work that popped up.

Sullivan would somehow position himself successfully away from them after that, or be almost unnoticeable within the bar until Bruce actually actively scans what little patrons are there. Or until Bruce feels some kind of prickling at his skin.

Which usually means Sullivan is staring at him, oftentimes with a distracted glaze at his eyes. Like he is remembering or thinking about something.

Bruce's skin would prickle even more at the times he spots Sullivan at that state, and he's not even a squeamish person. He tries not to think too much about it, he's a fucking policeman and he'd had angry gun barrels trained on him a couple of times for godsakes, as Sullivan is just alone and like any other alone person drinking in a bar he looks occasionally at the one familiar sight which just happened to be him.

He can't help but think though when he caught Sullivan outside the glass windows of the bar at one time, turning away and walking to somewhere else when he spots Bruce's usual boisterous company already inside (but not Bruce himself).

He can't help but think even more at the days Sullivan happened not to be there.

He hates feeling it and didn't even know why he's feeling it, but he has to admit at those times he feels a bit lonely. And a bit put out even with all the booze and the company at that floor.

 

 

 

"It's not like they have a serious lack of talented people," Sullivan was saying. "They just have too much of an excess of what they need, that they could stand to lose some."

He didn't know when exactly that soccer game had turned to a discussion of something like warfare and strategy within ball clubs' management, but Bruce has to say he's pretty impressed.

Sullivan was as sharp as his file says, despite those slight weary lines around his eyes and the almost empty bottle of rum shared between them. He was the only one so far who can keep up with Bruce's chatter and mood shifts, and actually retort back with something intelligent.

'Retort' may not even be the actual thing that Sullivan is doing, with that constantly almost smooth and placid shit he's pulling despite all of Bruce's crafty attempts to be raunchy and contradictory. 

Despite all the dissenting opinions, Bruce discovers lots of their similar viewpoints and interests, that it's almost scary.

And still not enough for him.

There's still that level in that company man that he could sense he had barely even skimmed the surface of. Something there he knows he couldn't yet pinpoint his finger on. Despite the scary and uncomfortable thought that they may even be going to the state of being _friends_ (or, he _really_ wants to insist that it is all just some kind of mutual respect), he still wants to throw a stick at or shake the surface of that calm water.

He finds himself wanting to rile Sullivan up. Just to see how much emotion he could pull out of that perennially unruffled face. Because he thinks there is just something inherently wrong with a person who would most often not react over anything that he, THE Detective Bruce Robertson, says --- or he just can't believe that someone is as good as him in pulling a poker face.

"Speaking of team," he jerked his head towards the direction of the club a few establishments away across the street, the one which was nearly hidden unless you willfully looked for it, eyes twinkling mischievously, "wanna do the tag one?"

Which caused the company man's eyes to widen fractionally a bit and an eyebrow twitch.

He also thought he saw a bit of fear.

He was not that innocent. He knew the places Sullivan had went to, and he had specifically picked this bar not just for the convenience, but the funny and fitting coincidence of the pleasure place a bit hidden but still across, which was just enough for his testing purposes.

It was quite uncanny then that Sullivan seemed not conscious of this, or doesn't seem to remember. Or was just that good in hiding.

Just as fast as he thought he saw that little flash of reaction, Sullivan had pointedly focused his attention back to his drink. "No," he said, almost flatly.

"Oh come on, I know you want to." Suddenly the prospect of seeing Sullivan live in action kind of excited him. Not in the sense that it sexually aroused him (like, what the hell), but the thought of seeing even more reactions than what he is seeing now...

"No," Sullivan still said.

He huffed, enthusiasm suddenly down the drain, and crouched over his own drink. 

"Doesn't your dick get rubbed raw doing it that often?" he asks after a moment.

It might have sounded petulant, because he did know what was on Sullivan's file, having ideas of what those discreet self-help meetings are for, though unconfirmed, and what he had witnessed for weeks of tailing him. Or said out of spite --- Sullivan did, inadvertently, just cockblock his sudden urge to shag after all. Or it just might be the nature of the detective in him daring to push the boundaries of his subject, up to the point of snapping. But he was generally sober, and curious, and Sullivan had looked back at him again.

"No," the company man said quietly after a moment, like he was telling a secret. Then looked down again at his glass to finish it. "Not really."

 

 

 

"Hey, cocksucker."

Pimpsqueak crossed the rest of the washroom over to him, giving him a lascivous leer in response that never really worked on him as he never really digs guys, even more the blatant gays like this one with the awful hair and eyeliner. The pathetic chap was aptly named because he happened to own the biggest network of whores in this area, and he squeaks in an annoyingly shrill way whenever Bruce pinches his arse. Which apparently, mysteriously, is this queer's topmost joy in the world. Weird gays with their weird fetishes.

Pimpsqueak stops a few inches infront of him, like in the universal language of sizing him up (though, in Bruce's world, nobody can really size him up, no matter how bigger and ugly-looking they were like this one). When he opens his mouth, he smelled of mint.

Good enough.

"Well, you should have a little something for me."

Bruce just smirked, and proceeded to pull the back of that head to his to give its owner a deep and filthy kiss.

Which was just the timing for Sullivan to come into the restroom, those eyes instantly locking into the sight.

Their eyes met for a brief moment, until that tongue in his mouth did something that made him defocus and grip harder at the hair in his fingers. 

When his eyes went back up he only saw the door softly clicking back shut with the company man beyond.

"Mmm. Anything else then for me?"

Bruce began pulling down his trousers' zip. "Lock the door."

 

 

 

Sullivan doesn't appear again in the bar almost two weeks after that.

Bruce thinks, he must have given the poor man an eyeful.

...He also can't help but wonder again at other things.

 

 

 

The next time he spots Sullivan however, he was at the very first bar that Sullivan spotted him at in the past. The one nearest to the Company.

Rather, it was that telltale stranglehold of a familiar grey scarf that he spotted at the window. And he just wanted to check. One peculiarity he found with the company man: it's like he's also perennially cold. It was more often than not that he would see Sullivan not even bother to loosen up his scarf or shrug out of his coat, even in a relatively warmed place like this.

Like the cold was internal.

"Hey," he says, sliding into the barstool beside as he confirms from the side profile that it was indeed Sullivan.

Sullivan looks surprised, jolting a bit out of his reverie. "Officer."

It was then that he noticed the bruises. Almost healed over was one at the company man's cheekbone and the other almost below his bottom lip. "What the fuck happened to you?"

Sullivan looks away, looking almost embarrassed by the attention. "Just got mugged. Nothing much."

"When was this?" He realizes, that must also be why he had also not been seeing the man around the Company the past weeks. He thought it was just because they're placed at different floors, or he broke the man's brain because of that scene with Pimpsqueak. He considers for a moment. "Where?"

"A little past a week ago. On the shortcut. It's nothing," Sullivan repeats, takes a gulp of his beer. End of conversation.

Bruce's mind narrows in the points. Nobody mugs in that shortcut, especially when those few strays there had seen him pass (looking and screaming POLICE too at that) with whoever he happens to be with. Not much also uses that shortcut, as more often it smells of piss and rotten garbage and generally unnoticeable in the dark of night as its unlighted entrance is barricaded partly by a lonely-looking dumpster.

Unless...

"Want me to walk you there next time?"

"No," Sullivan says again in that point-blank way of his that just communicated he must be in a foul mood today. Then gave him a glance. "Is there something funny, officer?"

He just really can't help that big lip-splitting grin on his face, at a possible case-related epiphany. "Nothing. It's just been a beautiful day, that's all." 

 

 

 

"You fucking _promised_."

That next night, he places the phone a bit away from his ear to at least lessen that shrill whine, more like distractedly scanning his surroundings, studying the graffiti-ruined walls and the alleyway out to the street beyond. "But what can I do, love, when the suspect seems to have a mind of his own? Anyway, I really have to go now. Bye."

"Wai ---"

He pushes the button to terminate Pimpsqueak's call.

All the while not taking his eyes off the possibly newest body, another whore with her face smashed in and left on the alleyway to rot. Rigor mortis seems to indicate three days in, and he still has to completely process the crime scene to check if there are any vials.

He can't help but grin to himself mentally. He can't help but imagine a victory trumpet in the distance. 

 _Another_ _beautiful_ _day_.

 


	5. Chapter 5

After Bruce reads through that white paper, it just takes all his willpower not to tear it up and throw it across the room.

He's practically fuming.  
  
So he does the only thing he is capable of doing rationally right now --- fucking book an immediate flight to fucking Scotland.  
  
And there he was again, lurking beyond the gates of the fucking school border like a fucking stalker. Maybe just to have even a glimpse of his son, though he truly thinks the situation wouldn't be any better than the last time.  
  
Twice his son didn't know him. The first one his son hid behind his mother looking at him like he's a scary stranger, that he almost wanted to cry, and his wife was looking at him with that scowl on her face. His son didn't seem to remember those few times he managed to play around with him despite his gruelling schedule. His son didn't recognize him at all.  
  
It was already way in the middle of the afternoon, and he had a feeling that his wife did follow on her threat. When she made sure she got away from him, she had also meant taking her son with her. He would have wanted to ask the guard on the gate to be sure, but it's also already been hours that the chap was eyeing him warily like all those times before, him looking like a crazy stalker and all.  
  
He wouldn't be surprised if that person was also insructed by his wife to watch out for him. He had made sure he would marry a relatively smart woman, after all.  
  
He was almost about to relent to just marching up to the fellow though and wringing out the information from him if necessary when his phone rang. Sighing, he picks it up and finds that he has to go back now ASAP as his requested delivery had just arrived.  
  
Taking one long last look at the school, he hurries back calling the airport customer service for a chance flight, forcing himself again to bury any other feelings that aren't case-related at all.  
  
There are a couple of ways you could go about to break a man, and... Bruce really doesn't want to think about it now.

 

 

 

He dreams about her.  
  
Lips a sinful red wrapped around his cock, taking in even more of him as he gradually bears down on her. Only his tense thighs balancing and his death grip on the headboard controlling the whole thing, or else he'll choke her, and this will all end prematurely.  
  
This is all too good. Her mouth is all too good. Too tight. He didn't want this to end.  
  
He feels her nails digging in harder than before on his hips though, and he looks down at that pretty blonde head lying down dishelved on that pillow. Just in time for those lids fluttering open.  
  
And fixed on him eyes that were a piercing crystal blue. That got him a bit disoriented --- because he could swear those were brown earlier --- and caused him to moan, that ---

 

  
\--- caused him to jerk awake in a cold sweat, and trembling limbs.  
  
Brandon manages to stumble to his bathroom after a while, like all those times before, but his body somehow still couldn't decide if he wanted to puke or jerk off or shower with the water as cold as he can bear, just to try to get those images from that recently recurring dream off his head.  
  
But he knows that no matter what he does, those scenes will never go away, and he slumps down into a corner of the shower, bombarded by sights and sounds that just feels all too _real_ , like it wasn't just a dream, but a memory.  
  
He knew in his heart of hearts, he knew who he was really dreaming about.  
  
He still couldn't admit to himself, that it all didn't just start when he saw that scene in the loo with Detective Robertson and whoever he had been with. He had never wanted to dream about _this_. There had been some instances before that he would dream, but it was all shades and blurred and he would feel altogether weird and just get on with his day, but after what he had seen everything seems clearer now. Sharper.  
  
And what's even worse, are the _daydreams_. Whatever he encounters as nightmares, seem to warp further with his imagination during the day --- Detective Robertson finding him lying naked somewhere, sometimes at that shortcut, feeling like that time he had been mugged when in the end he just found himself staring up at a starless night sky, and after being asked if he was alright he would feel the detective's polished shoes kick his thighs open, and slide further up, and...  
  
He scrubs his palms through his face wearily, trying to ignore the throbbing between his legs.  
  
He knew he was going to mess this up. Whatever seemingly fragile acquaintance he has with Detective right now, he knew he's bound to mess it up. And he didn't know why he feels upset about it, when he's already supposed to be used to being out of control again anyway.  
  
He doesn't know what to do.

 

 

 

It was his second to the last club, and Bruce is already pretty pissed.  
  
Because if he still doesn't get a breakthrough on this club, he pretty much has to find a way to raise hell on earth.  
  
The Chinese had paled when he held up that small pack of cocaine, and had stumbled over his own feet while gathering up all the security footage he had into a box, while Bruce examines the last suite Sullivan had been into during the approximate time of the killings.  
  
And because he doesn't play fair, afterwards he still plants the pack under the toilet's water tank cover for good measure.  
  
Which led him to hours of scouring through tapes of splitscreens of outside and inside views of the club, plenty of those with scenes of sex or drug sessions or both, and he somehow manages to get his mind off the gutter to fast-forward to the dates Sullivan had been in. The video encoder he got from the station tech records everything into his hard drive anyway.  
  
He's pretty much ready to nickname Sullivan as "Energizer Bunny" after almost an hour and quarter of just intense rounds of sex with two model-types, when the company man stops and extracts himself from all those limbs to go to the bathroom. Which is also to Bruce's relief because he thought it would never end, as he gratefully uses the break to wipe off the spunk from his hand and dick (because, hey, free porn).  
  
It was almost to his surprise then when Sullivan comes back out wearing a robe, and pays off his partners to their disappointed protests. A few minutes later he also gets them both out of the room, with a few more torrid kisses and unsuccessful gropes.  
  
Then Bruce watches as he sits down on the floor at the foot of the bed, turns on the TV infront of him, and after a few moments of blankly looking at the screen, sinks his face into his knees, hugging them close to himself like a death grip. Like something in him would spill out if he doesn't.  
  
And Bruce just finds himself continuing to watch, almost with bated breath, this little tableau of pain. He had seen out of habit the timestamp earlier, and it was already two minutes. Three minutes.  
  
Five minutes. Ten.  
  
At the back of his mind, he vaguely registers that the timestamp is already past the estimated time of the last murder, and, ideally, he should have been frustrated.  
  
But he isn't, and suddenly he wanted to tear his eyes away, if not for the possibility that something else might happen, if not for the feeling that this is even more private than what he had wanked to earlier...  
  
Maybe it's like he could see his own pain right then and there, physically manifested infront of him. It was all pixel-ly and there was even no sound, but it still felt much worse than seeing a similar sight like that in a movie for some reason.  
  
He didn't want to think about it, but there were nights sometimes, when he was high and dry, or the drugs had ran out and it was still days before his next paycheck, that he was just like that.  
  
He wanted to scoff at the sight, think of Sullivan as some kind of weakling, think of this whole drama as some wuss' charade. Yet...  
  
He manages to pick up the remote and fast-forward past further minutes of Sullivan just in that position.  
  
He felt something like numb afterwards, scanning through the rest of the footages quietly, but somehow deep inside he felt disturbed.  
  
If he'll be honest about it, maybe he'd admit it's actually because he felt a bit shaken.

 

 

 

Brandon barely managed to suppress his chuckle, or else everyone in the coffee shop might think he's crazy. Instead, he hid his smile behind his coffee cup, as he stared at the little scene across the street...  
  
...Of Detective Robertson being given the dirty finger by some punk-ass kid with a balloon.  
  
Simply arching an unimpressed eyebrow, the detective just nonchalantly took off the cigarette from his mouth and popped the balloon with it.  
  
To the kid's incredulity, face contorting to burst into tears, the detective just flashed a dirty finger of his own.  
  
As much as Brandon thought it was pretty mean, it kind of served the brat right.  
  
And it kind of made his day.  
  
Which must be the reason why he left the cool confines of the coffee shop to go back out to the busy street, crossing over to where the detective was standing. And the detective had also spotted him halfway, with those sharp crystal blue eyes in its usual angry-looking crinkle.  
  
"Officer," he said in greeting when he reached the curb. At the back of his head already chastising himself for being illogically masochistic --- for going over with only a bit of the usual hesitation.  
  
"Late for work, I see," the detective gives a curt nod in acknowledgment, before those eyes zeroed in to the grande Brandon still has in his hand. "Is that coffee?"  
  
And he could not do anything more when the detective just promptly plucked it out of his hand to remove the cover and take one long drink.  
  
"I'm not. Just took the half-day off to process my stolen IDs." Brandon did his best not to stare at the pale arch of that neck.  
  
It just took all of Brandon's willpower though to ignore the unexpected twitch in his pants at the pleased sound the detective made when he finished.  
  
"Oh holy sweet mother of god, that is heavenly," the detective muttered as he pressed down the cap and gave the grande back to Brandon. "Thank you. You have no idea how much I needed that."  
  
Brandon noticed the bloodshot eyes, and dark eye circles on pale skin that seemed pastier than before. He chose not to comment. "No problem at all, Officer."  
  
The detective waved that off. "Just call me Bruce. Seeing how I actually drank your coffee now and all."  
  
"Bruce," he managed to repeat, testing the sound of it on his tongue, when he got over the initial startlement. He smiled thinly, then taking what could be a bold move, "I guess you could call me Brandon then, Of --- Bruce."  
  
Bruce eyed him then, before giving a short, sharp laugh. That Brandon can't help but frown and go pink in sudden embarrassment, instantly regretting his actions. "Bruce. Brandon," the detective seemed to test the names on his own lips. He looks at Brandon, lips curving into a smile that wasn't really malevolent, "Sounds familiar?"  
  
Brandon suddenly got thrown into a loop, before he tested, "Like Brandon Lee and Bruce Lee?"  
  
"Exactly," Bruce grinned. "We're a tragic pair, aren't we?"  
  
Brandon tried to ignore the chill that rippled through his spine at that, managing, "Right."  
  
"Kinda reminds me --- I've been going through my recordings in the DVR, and I happen to still have that Chelsea game you said you missed. Want to come over to my flat to make a copy?"  
  
Brandon ends up agreeing again, and Bruce saying they'll just meet at the usual pub later so they can go together. Then Bruce hails a taxi, saying he's going over to the Company and if Brandon would like to go with. Brandon declines, saying he still has some paperwork to finish at the City Hall.  
  
Though there were no paperwork to finish.  
  
He just suddenly felt like he needed the distance this time. It was just so uncharacteristic of him to be this forward to the detective, that he felt like reality had finally caught up and slammed into him when he was suddenly faced with the prospect of being in an enclosed space like that cab with the person. He just had to back off.  
  
Because he felt, as he sipped at his grande watching the cab roll off, no doubt this day won't pass without him wondering how Bruce's lips, previously on this same cup, taste like.  
  
And aside from the usual self-loathing, he can't help but feel upset again that he had started to think that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by the seaside. It's not that nice.  
> POVs get wonky from here. I just feel like it for some reason.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in time for James' birthday! Happy birthday to my love James McAvoy!

Apparently they are already on first-name basis now.

Bruce cannot exactly remember how that happened, in that noon at the street with his brain still tinged with drugs and seeing people like they are colored candies with halogen lamps around their heads.

For some reason, Sullivan had been the brightest of them all, shining around the edges that it almost threatened to hurt his eyes as he went nearer. Or maybe that was just it --- that he happened to be the nearest one. Like some being sent down from heaven, carrying coffee, making his greedy system realize how much he actually craved for coffee at the moment.

He didn't know why the hell he had even likened Sullivan to an angel, when he's all but a devil in bed.

...Maybe he had really wanted Sullivan --- no, Brandon --- to know his name. Though it's all bordering to non-compliance of the police code because Sulliwan is still a suspect after all, maybe it's due to a sense of fairness, an acknowledgment of the unlikely camaraderie.

He knows how imperfect Brandon is, maybe even more imperfect than him.

It may be the wrong reason, but strangely it comforted him somehow.

 

 

 

He doesn't know how in the world he got dragged in here again.

Frequent nights of watching recorded matches from Bruce's DVR, sharing beer and chips. Frequently in silence, awkward moments of silence sometimes for him. Or maybe it was just him who's feeling disconcerted, not knowing if he should make conversation, because Bruce looks comfortable all the same, still settling on the opposite side of the sofa they share with his feet up on the coffee table, still inviting him over to his apartment out of the blue.

And everytime he goes, despite the twinges of lust in his head, under his skin.

Or maybe he's just selling himself short. They do have conversation sometimes. Mostly about things normal people flinches or stay away from. Debates sometimes. Bruce still suggesting for threesomes every now and then, which he point-blank shoots down. Exchanging subtle barbs, even.

But Bruce would not get offended or incensed, just raise an eyebrow and look amused.

He's starting to think something is wrong with the detective for hanging out with someone like him.

Brandon thinks he doesn't have any problem with communication. He managed to land and stay in a high-paying job with it. Knew enough the right things to say and the right timing to draw people to his bed, to have sex with him.

Knows enough lies to twist truths, and speak nothing when needed.

But whenever he's with Bruce, he almost doesn't know what to do.

He doesn't know if he should lie, or say nothing. But it seems almost impossible, because it always seems like Bruce may see through him, could see through hm. That every effort of his would just go naught.

It feels like he's a dog circling a cat, and they are watching each other warily, tense with anticipating whoever would actually strike first.

So he ends up saying the truth, or the nearest to it, or silence that just speaks volumes of a truth he himself is afraid to even hear from his own mouth, but knows Bruce may have already long deduced. 

If at all, he felt like a masochist.

... He didn't even know when he started to get used to calling him as just "Bruce".

 

 

 

And it was one of those nights again, Bruce having discovered another match in his DVR that they could watch and offering to cover the beer and food. Still slightly fuzzy with the drinks they had at the bar, they settle on their own sides of the elevator wall --- Brandon by the wall near the buttons at the right, Bruce facing the doors at his left.

The doors opened halfway through the building to some big rapper-types going in, that Brandon has to move sideways back to accomodate the rest of them. They were already on full load, that he thought the elevator would finally warn them of over-capacity when one last guy insisted on fitting himself in.

He realized it was then just a few inches between him and Bruce again. Bruce was still on his same wall facing the general direction of the door, only pressed a bit near him as there was a huge bloke towering infront of him and flanking his other side.

And Bruce was tense, though his face was a mask of nonchalant calm. Brandon sensed it more than seen it, also spotting that slight bulge under the detective's coat pocket where his hand is also shoved into.

A gun, most likely.

He could just smell the cigarettes, traces of beer, and tension from the detective.

He can't help but try to adjust further away a bit, and his own long coat. He's growing hard again.

A bit more floors, and thankfully it was also the big men's stop. Brandon watches each alight to distract himself.

It was only then when the doors closed and the elevator began moving again that Bruce took his hand out of his pocket, tension dissipated.

They reached Bruce's floor in relative silence, and when Bruce unlocks the door it's only when he began to talk.

"I've got some bottles in the fridge, if you want to start," the detective said, bending over to pick up a white envelope that almost got stepped on. Brandon can't help but watch the motion, and that slight crinkle that appeared between Bruce's eyebrows as he skims the front of the envelope for a bit and tosses it eventually to a side table.

His phone then vibrates in his pocket, and he fishes it out as he makes his way to the fridge. He frowns on seeing the message, then quickly checks over his phone apps.

"What is it?" Bruce speaks up as he passes by him, beating him to the fridge and taking out some bottles.

"I..." Still checking through, and he curses mentally when he finds that his data allocation is definitely shot. "I have to go to the net. Some immediate work issue sent to my mail..."

Bruce regards him for a moment, as he pops open some bottles for them. "You can use my laptop."

Brandon mutters a relieved "thanks" when Bruce points over by the window with his beer bottle, and takes his own bottle as he moves over to the unit and takes off his coat and scarf.

"You won't mind pizza, right? What would you want on it?" Bruce was on his own phone now as he glances up from waiting for the screen to load.

"Anything you want," he says distractedly, before looking back to the screen. He doublechecks the connection at the bottom, before going through the trackpad to pull up the menu and tap for a browser.

"Pepperoni and bacon it is," Bruce declares.

Nothing happened on the tap, and Brandon frowns after a moment before pulling up the menu again and making sure he selected the browser. The browser loads after a moment, along with another window that he ignores and taps on the bar of the browser instead to set it to the front and have him load his account.

He skims through his emails, and spots shortly at the side that the other window had loaded with a portion of pictures peeking it out. He taps on the bar of the other window so that he could bring it to the front to close it.

Only to see pictures of a blonde woman, with curly short hair reaching almost past her jaws. 

The woman looks eerily similar to the one who had died in Bruce's pictures, the woman who happened to work at the same Company as him. This woman though had some pictures just in lingerie.

"What are you looking at?"

Brandon jumps, and almost closes the laptop out of habit when caught, but Bruce was already beside him, towering over him as he squints down at the window now open on the screen.

"That's my wife. Hot, isn't she?" Bruce then says, and Brandon can't help but flush as he looks at screen, not knowing what to say.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ---"

"Know why I've took on this case?" Bruce then says nonchalantly, and Brandon gets thrown out of the loop suddenly. "It's because my wife looks a lot like one of them, that's all."

Brandon looks up at Bruce, hoping to find courage to say sorry again even more sincerely. But then Bruce's face was quite too near, with leaning almost down over him with a hand braced by the side of the table to squint down at his laptop. And those eyes were too much of a bright blue and bloodshot and those lips were too red...

And those lips were kissing him at the next, hungrily, like trying to devour him and get even closer, trying to shove a tongue down his throat to taste him. And that body definitely pushed even closer, leaning down at him to bracket him against the table, pushed a knee between his thighs to rest on his chair to ---

Brandon jerks back, blinking and heart pounding, as he looks up at Bruce's face.. 

...which had not advanced at all, still too near but had not actually kissed him, and was now looking down at him a bit curiously.

"I can't ---" He was suddenly met with a wave of panic, and he stands up abruptly, making Bruce back up a bit. "I'm sorry, I can't do this ---"

And he all but takes his coat and scarf and sprints out the door, to the elevators and out of the building.

 

 

 

Almost past half an hour later, as he gets out of the cab in a daze and walks over to his apartment building, his phone vibrates and rings.

He manages to ignore it for a few more rings before he relents infront of the elevators, opening the screen to an unknown number which he answers numbly.

"What the hell was that about?" a familiar Scottish accent meets his ears, causing his throat to dry up and his heart pound anew.

"What..." he swallows thickly, catching himself that he must be sounding stupid, before trying again, "I'm sorry ---"

"You really don't remember me, do you?"

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry this took too long. Too busy with real life, aka trying to get into art school. It's too hard, and I'm honestly getting depressed, but I love this story and would want to tell this story that even if nobody's actually reading I would still want to finish it.
> 
> Hope you'll like it. Comments, if you want? This story is ending soon.

 

 

"...What?" Brandon could only say dumbly.  
  
And slowly start to feel some kind of panic, as he catches himself watching the LCD where the elevator already is, just wanting it to go down to where he is. Fast.  
  
Just wanting to go somewhere. Anywhere but here. Wanting to just get away from this phone, from this call.  
  
But his usual... propriety... is again sending him on a turmoil if he should just end the call or not. Though he really wants to at the moment.  
  
He can't deal with this right now. He just _can't_.  
  
"Don't you 'what' me," the voice on the other line seemed to snap. "You fucking know what I'm talking about."  
  
"I don't..." Brandon's mind is spinning in all directions suddenly. "I don't know what you're talking about ---"  
  
And the elevator door seemed to punctuate that with a loud _ding_ over the empty hallway as it finally settled on Brandon's floor, startling him a bit.  
  
Now he couldn't decide if he should go in as the elevator doors opened, knowing he'd probably lose connection with the other person on the line if he hops into the enclosure...  
  
...But really, isn't that what he wanted earlier? An excuse to just terminate this call?  
  
Some part of him is warring though with the thought, because he suddenly, _honestly_ lost whatever it is they're actually talking about...  
  
But for some reason his heart was pounding, his head panicking...  
  
The elevator doors then started to close at his indecision, and he finds his body decide for him by making him hurtling forward into the compartment and barely have his coat pinned in between.  
  
Bruce was speaking rapid-fire further into the line, but as Brandon's mind had known all along, it was all choppy and unintelligible as there is practically weak network signal in these elevators.  
  
He ended up pocketing his phone, giving up on understanding anything Bruce is saying on the other line and hearing just silence at a certain point, when the elevator startled him again with another sound that signaled he was already on his own floor.  
  
He stumbles out of the elevator, feeling disoriented.  
  
And for the first time, the actual realization hit. He realizes why he is all upset over this thing he had with Bruce.  
  
He was upset because for the first time in his life, he had one person who would look at him as he is, who seems to already know him inside and out without him having to explain himself but still wouldn't change how he interacts with him, who wouldn't even blink on seeing how much he is a terrible person, much less talk to him and be talked back to in return.  
  
And he's about to lose that person again, because of that stupid itching of lust underneath his skin.  
  
"Do you need help with that?"  
  
A sweet voice snaps him out of his distress, and makes him drop his keys from his trembling fingers, which somehow couldn't find the correct one to open his door.  
  
He barely even noticed that he was actually already at his door, jamming some key from his keyring mindlessly.  
  
He snatches them quick from the floor, and forces a smile at the brunette living from two doors away who happens to pass by him with some plastic bags on hand. He's always had a little crush on this one, he must admit.  
  
And that was bad, because he's all fucked up in the head and horny right now.  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm just ---"  
  
"You look cold. Here, let me..." Soft hands gently took his keys from him, apparently determining he's looking too much in a sorry state right now to even unlock his own apartment. It just took her two tries and the door swung open.  
  
He can't help but breathe in her scent.  
  
"Would you... would you want some coffee first?"

 

  
  
  
Bruce ended up staring at his phone in disbelief.

And feeling some form of being put off he couldn't understand why he is even feeling.  
  
When just after a few minutes of the line being silent for some reason, he started hearing some noises from his phone. Muffled conversation. Rustles.  
  
Muffled moans.  
  
He ended up pressing the button on his phone to terminate the call. The guy on the other end must have forgotten to.  
  
For some reason, all his next actions seemed automatic. Sit down at the dresser. Pump in some drugs. Check the bottles at the table if he would need a refill from his trusty supplier. Only broken by instances when he suddenly feels the need to breathe, slow down, that he bites into the edge of the phone in his mouth just so he could force himself to fucking _breathe_.  
  
Somehow though, despite all these, he felt so numbed.  
  
_Stupid fuck. Stupid fuck._ Those words kept on replaying in his head somehow, and the thing is he didn't know if the anger is actually directed at himself, or at Brandon. He knows he should get up now and check that left open email inbox for any evidence regarding the case, but he ends up stabbing needle after needle into his arm, snorting powder from that foil every now and then.  
  
_At least these wouldn't just leave me._  
  
This realization hit him like ink slowly spreading through the haze in his mind, and when it registered sufficiently enough at the only coherent part of his brain he wanted to fucking laugh at being whiny and needy like that. And he didn't want to feel that, he didn't understand, _couldn't be bothered_ to understand right now why he is even feeling like that.  
  
Maybe he just needs a fuck right now.  
  
Just as soon as he could actually _breathe_.  
  
He lifts himself to his feet, and stumble and trip over various things en route to the open window at the side. He tries to clear his head enough, but somehow the air just isn't enough.  
  
And a new panic begins to set in, as he feels his blood rushing through his ears as he tries to gulp in air, his heart hammering in his chest and some headache hammering through his skull. _Not enough. Not enough._  
  
He may have overdone it this time.  
  
He had to get out.  
  
Which was really just him stumbling through the city. Aimlessly. Stumbling through streets of whores and pimps and shadowy thugs who wouldn't even touch him as he would occasionally trip over his own feet and crash to the ground. Somehow they must be judging that he's just some pathetic bloke who may have had too many drinks and it's just not worth it.  
  
And he wanted to laugh at that, as he just picks himself up and continues wading through this scattered muck of filth and people. Scream at them to just make them turn down the lights, because it's all just too fucking _bright_ and fake and he really didn't know where he is right now. And he's still finding it too difficult to breathe.  
  
He finds himself stumbling through the usual alleyway to where he and Brandon goes to the usual bar for drinks. Somehow his feet took him there, he realizes belatedly, and as he stupidly blinks at the sight of the establishment from a distance, something in him cowers.  
  
No doubt, if the bartender inside sees his condition if he goes through that door, he'll just end up getting thrown out.  
  
He ends up crumpling at the edge of the alleyway, his head sinking between his knees as he continues gulping in air. Air that consists of the pungent smell of piss and garbage, but he couldn't begin to care.  
  
He couldn't understand the pain in his chest starting to overwhelm the various other drug-induced sensations in him.  
  
He couldn't understand himself right now.

 

  
  
Somehow they ended up drinking coffee by the ceiling to floor windows overlooking the city. In his bedroom.  
  
Somehow they ended up kissing by those windows too.  
  
And Brandon is going through the usual motions of sex and seduction again, delving into the heady mix of arousal and perfume that was quite familiar from his partner's skin.  
  
But somehow Bruce and his own trappings keep plaguing his mind, and all he could think is the eyes underneath him are wrong, they're not blue...  
  
That it was enough to tear his mouth and body away from that soft and tempting flesh he had just pinned down the bed. He withdraws to the edge across of his bed, scrubbing his hands through his face in frustration.  
  
He feels the bed dip at his back a little bit afterwards, hands sliding from his shoulders to his front in an idle carress as a hot and barely clothed body presses against his back. "What's wrong?"  
  
He felt bad. Really bad. Like his body and mind is trapped in a limbo of indecision, of internal suffering. While his body had no problems reacting to that sneaky hand making its way down his trousers, he just felt way too _sad_ to even do anything else right now.  
  
"I'm sorry," he finally says hoarsely, as he disentangles himself from those arms and stand up to pick up his partner's clothes from the floor and gingerly place it onto the foot of the bed. "Just a bad day." He proceeds then to the door to get his coat and scarf from the hanger and put it on, having already made up his mind, "Please just lock the door on your way out."  
  
And he goes to the elevators, punching for the ground floor. Maybe all he needs right now is to have lots of drinks, just to forget this night ever happened. Just to get through the next day. Just to stop his mind from straying towards Bruce, and how he botched up a fairly decent connection with another human being.  
  
_And he feels strong and soft legs wrap around his waist, locking at the dip of his spine. Moans puffing through his hair as he buried his nose into a creamy white neck with the heady scent of perfume and the unique heat of his partner, unable to resist biting down to taste and leave his mark. As he pushed into the tightness under him, and he can't help but groan and adjust his body as the action made him meet red lips and crystal blue eyes staring at him through half lids..._  
  
Brandon froze.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit and dubious consent things up ahead.
> 
> Also, I'm really sorry that this took such a long time. Honestly, I've been really stumped by this chapter, aside from RL, but it's only through those lovely comments that I managed to power on. It's good to know that some are still discovering this story and liking it so far. Authors do love comments (though I couldn't reply back, I do read them)! Thanks all for the well-wishes, for art school's really hard... So to the latest commenters KesaKo, deadoralive0013, RainySpringMorning, Drynae, this is for you.

_He could just swear, that somebody had spiked his drink._

_Because otherwise he wouldn't feel this out of control. So uncaring. So... loose._

_He managed to disengage himself from all those hands groping him, and make his way out of that bar. Quite a bit incensed and mortified and out of it and just wanting to breathe some air..._

_Just to take himself off the edge. Off the_ lust _._

_Is this really just his body, though? Or a state of mind at a certain time and a certain place?_

_He honestly just wanted to go back to his apartment. Sleep it out maybe. Or shower and jerk off and just scrub it all off his skin._

_But he saw_ her _again. Standing at a corner near the alleyway so inconspicuous, despite the blonde short hair and the tiger print of a coat showing through the mess of neon lights._

_He had barely registered that he had actually moved until he realized he was already mashing his lips against the soft ones under his, had slammed and pinned that body to a nearby wall and there was some muffled sound of protest somewhere there that was accompanied by some attempts to shove away._

_But he could have none of it, not now, and he tore his mouth away to grip at the blonde hair and skim lips and teeth and tongue down to that soft area behind the jaw. When he catches the earlobe as he nips, hips rutting against this woman's frame, some guttural gasp sounded somewhere, and he honestly couldn't tell if it was actually him._

_He felt so_ desperate _._

_Some fingers had gripped at his hair, and that body was pushing back now, trying to set its own undulating rhythm against his frenetic pace, and his one hand slips to push against the wall beside her head to brace himself and go at it even harder,_ better _._

_That body against him, moving almost in unexpected defiance and will of its own, almost unyielding._

_It was the same like before, like some good sexual memory. That intoxication he had felt before... he could feel it again now._

_And, suddenly, he somehow just couldn't get enough again._

_He managed to clear out a bit of the fog in his mind through that sudden spike of craving, enough to tear his mouth away from that skin and distance a bit so he could pull his quarry to that place he knows is just near here, based on all those lights that barely registered in his vision._

_It was all then a blur, passing through the receptionist and getting cardkeys to the usual room, only feeling the slam of the door and half-tripping, half-tumbling over the bed. Teeth biting and nipping or mouth just slipping or breathing over skin as hands fumbled over stripping or tearing off clothes. The rush of it all making him deaf to everything, even as his partner gasped at him to stop._

_...The pitch of the voice sounded wrong though._

_"Fucking stop!" He felt a knee jab at his stomach, enough to make him crumple a bit to the side._

_And that's where everything somehow came into focus._

_He looked at those broad shoulders. Compact, just right and proportional for that smaller frame, but definitely broad enough. A firm, well-developed chest that has a bra, but definitely there was nothing else underneath. Broad, compactly muscled shoulders and arms and that certain part that reminded him they were both male._

_Then there was that wig starting to slip off that forehead, revealing black --- or dark brown? --- hair._

_An adam's apple._

_Somehow all the little details started popping up, but it was only after a moment that the gravity of the situation hit him like a freight train._

_He had been damn about to fuck some tranny._

_Seconds must have passed, as he was just frozen over this other man._

_Strangely, or not, his arousal was not going away._

_The man under him was also staring back at him, also breathing hard, before suddenly breaking out into a laugh that startled him._

_"Found me out, didn't you?" the man said after managing to catch his breath, with some foreign accent he couldn't place. He started to sit up. "I'll just ---"_

_His hand had shot out, stopping the man from completely sitting up. That startled them both._

_He swallowed thickly, before managing to say out hoarsely before he could even think about it, "You want some sex, don't you?"_

_The other man was now frozen under him, looking at him like he was crazy, though at the same time he seems like he's regarding him like he's trying to figure him out. "You still want to..."_

_"Yes," he blurted out, feeling so out of his mind. But he was just dying for release here, and it would not go away. It took all of his self-restraint to stop from just start grinding back over the other man._

_In the reddish dim lighting of their room, even with the skewed wig and smeared lipstick, this other man somehow didn't look too bad at all._

_And didn't protest when he found himself already grinding onto a thigh uncovered by that skirt. The man seemed to have gotten over his initial shock when his grinding soon moved further up to meet his crotch, even lying back down and meeting him per thrust._

_Even though he personally felt the sensation of rubbing against another man still so shocking, still odd, despite his mere handful of previous encounters with the same sex._

_He... he just has to make this fast. He focused on the man's shoulder... somehow it looked so creamy and white, with a generous dash of freckles all around. His eyes couldn't help but follow the extent of it, leading up to a strong neck, a firm chin, and..._

_This guy... he has a really kissable mouth. And those eyes. Even partially obscured with lids drooping in pleasure, they were like crystal in the dim light. So blue... and they were looking straight at him._

_He can't help it --- he found himself kissing the man again._

_The other man was also having a go at it now. He felt a hand grab through his hair, at the back of his head, deepening the kiss. Somehow he feels his leg tangled up with the other's surprisingly strong ones._

_He feels himself wanting more. His hand was now scrabbling underneath the skirt, tearing at whatever cloth is there. His hand shooting out at the bedside table, groping at the contents for the lube he knew was inside._

_When he coated his fingers and started smearing and pushing one into the other's hole, that is when he received another kick --- a knee-jerk reaction._

_"Come on," he muttered under his breath, in between gritted teeth. "you've gone this far already anyway."_

_He didn't really understand that look that the man under gave him. Somewhat, though, at the next push of his finger, he received no further protest. There was just that slight shuddering hiss of breath from that body under him, the back of a hand flying up to press tight against closed lids._

_It all felt insane. Surreal. But he can't stop. He couldn't stop now._

_The man was clenching around him impulsively when he tried to enter, and it was really making things difficult._

_"You try having a stick up your ass, how about that?" the man snapped back irritably, and he frowned at that and retaliated by completely pushing in and bottoming out in one swift move that it drew a gasped curse again from the smaller man underneath him._

_Just around a few experimental thrusts, and at one point the man's eyes slammed shut and head tipped back slightly in a near soundless choke. To him, the universal signal that he must have found the spot._

_He dimly thought, well, that was pretty fast._

_But then, it seemed like he could be quite good in finding what his partner really wants, and finishing off as fast._

_Maybe, just so after that... he could get more..?_

_It was plain sensation after that, he just felt himself climbing further and further into his end, faster and faster. The tightness around his cock felt so addicting. He could dimly feel those fingers digging painfully into his shoulders, strong and soft legs wrap around his waist, locking at the dip of his spine. Moans puffing through his hair as he buried his nose into a creamy white neck with the heady scent of perfume and the unique heat of his partner, unable to resist biting down to taste and leave his mark. As he pushed into the tightness under him, he can't help but groan and adjust his body as the action made him meet red lips and crystal blue eyes staring at him through half lids._

_When he finally came, he couldn't really tell if it was him shuddering or groaning in relief, or this other man. The world just whited out._

_When he opened his eyes next, he was lying facedown on the bed. The other man was already gone._

 

 

He felt so stunned, unable to move, as the images ran through his head. As he had one hand braced on the elevator wall, by the stop button, which he somehow had pushed some time because one part of his brain must still be functioning, and recognized that he would need some time to get out of this little catatonic state he didn't mean to get himself in.

It must have been that perfume, that strangely somehow-so-familiar perfume, from that woman earlier. That triggered all this.

It was the same perfume... from... from...

_That's a memory, isn't it?_ a little voice seemed to whisper at the back of his head. But...

It felt so real, but...

_"You fucking know what I'm talking about."_

He didn't know if he should feel horrified now. Or just downright puke.

He honestly felt like puking.

He hits the button again instead, to have the elevator resume its way down. Though he really didn't much care if it's paused the whole night because nobody gets in and out at this ungodly time anyway, but he wants to go some place he could settle down.

He pushes the button to the floor where the maintenance room is, and as if in a dream trudges to the area when the elevator stops to let him alight.

The maintenance room is just some bare room with some huge heater-like exhaust box by some ceiling to floor windows, and it was warm enough there that he was forced to shed his coat and his scarf that just hung around his neck in his haste to leave his own apartment. And he finds himself going over to one side of the box, staring unseeingly at the view of the few lights scattered around the city.

_That couldn't be real._

_That couldn't be fucking real._

But Bruce's words kept replaying in his head, and he starts to remember now all those gazes at the bar when their eyes happen to meet, almost similar to that gaze he got when he first saw the detective in the Company staring back at him.

_That gaze that was much like of a trapped animal_.

Then there were his own inexplicable episodes of panic. When his mind gets confronted by those images. When Bruce confronted him, over the unreliable static of a phone.

He catches himself pacing restlessly around in a little circle, and he thinks... he thinks he may have understood it all now.

But as he slumps to sit down at that corner, his fingers worrying over his other fingers as he looks blankly down at them, he finds he couldn't accept it all yet.


End file.
